


Nice Guys

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen - Freeform, Murder Mystery, dark!Jonerys, or Drogo-friendly, or very Jorah-friendly, this is not cop-friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: Khal Drogo is his partner. His friend. So when he dies unexpectedly, Detective Jorah Mormont is determined to get to the bottom of it. It's what his widow, Daenerys, deserves.He just doesn't trust the Medical Examiner, Jon Snow, to handle the case.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 103
Kudos: 615





	Nice Guys

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! I love this time of year. This fic is more dark than scary. I guess it would be considered a mystery/thriller. It's also from Jorah's POV. That might seem strange to start, but I promise this is a Jonerys endgame.
> 
> Before you read, please see the tags and take them to heart. There are some sensitive subject matters covered in this story.
> 
> Thank you to aliciutza for the beta'ing and making the moodboard! I think it really captures the vibe I was going for :)

* * *

Khal Drogo wasn’t a particularly nice man, but he was Jorah’s partner, and that counted for something.

They were brothers—bound not by blood but by the badge. Cops looked out for one another. When you were on the job, you had to be able to trust that your partner had your back because often they were all that stood between you and some punk with a gun and a chip on his shoulder.

Still, that didn’t mean you had to _like_ your partner. And there was a lot to dislike about Drogo. He was loud and brash. Boastful. Arrogant. He could be cruel, too. Sometimes, when apprehending a perp, he got a little too rough, and on more than one occasion Jorah had to lie on the incident report just to cover for him: _Suspect got upset and slammed his head against the partition in the back of the patrol vehicle, resulting in laceration to his forehead. Suspect spit at officer and had to be forcibly restrained on the ground, dislocating her shoulder._

But Jorah knew Drogo would do the same for him. Between the two of them, he was normally the one with the cooler head, but every once in a while—after a particularly long night or another fight with his ex-wife—Jorah would find himself crossing that line, too. But only ever with the perps who deserved it—rapists, murderers, pedos, scumbags like that. He never felt bad about roughing up those assholes.

Truthfully, if it weren’t for his divorce, Jorah probably never would have gotten that chummy with his partner. Drogo had joined his unit around the time his marriage had begun to fall apart and, sensing Jorah’s need to vent, started inviting him out for drinks after shifts. As they drank beer after beer, Drogo would commiserate, egging Jorah on as he ranted about all the ways his ex had ruined his life. Drogo never judged him for what he said in those talks.

“Sometimes you just gotta let it out,” Drogo assured him. “You keep that shit inside, and you’ll go fucking mental. Us men gotta let off some steam once in a while, you know?”

Soon, Drogo was inviting him over to his house for dinner or to watch football on Sunday afternoons. That was when he first met Daenerys.

The moment he laid eyes on Drogo’s wife, he’d been completely bowled over. She was beautiful, even more so than his ex (who’d been a stunner herself—at least when she was younger, anyway). But Daenerys was in a league of her own; she was any straight man’s wet dream: petite and slender with silver-gold hair, plush lips, and a nice rack he couldn’t help but notice, especially when she wore one of her low-cut dresses around the house.

At first, he’d felt kind of bad for ogling his partner’s wife, but it became obvious Drogo took pride in showing her off like a trophy, like he considered her beauty a testament to his own virility as a man. He seemed to revel in the male attention she attracted and often even encouraged it, especially during their regular poker nights.

Those nights, it was them and four other cops from their precinct—Meryn Trant, Janos Slynt, Alliser Thorne, Aurochs Grenn—as well as Jon Snow, the medical examiner who worked with their department. Quiet and standoffish, Snow didn’t quite fit in with their crowd. He didn’t laugh at their jokes or join in on the shit talking; in fact, he hardly spoke at all, but Jorah figured you had to be a little fucking weird to enjoy playing around in dead bodies all day. Anyway, he was good friends with Grenn, and they needed a seventh player for poker.

While they played cards and smoked cigars, Daenerys was usually responsible for refreshing their drinks and bringing them snacks. She was always smiling—that’s what Jorah liked best about her, he decided. At the end of their marriage, Lynesse had stopped smiling; she was always scowling, always nagging him. Daenerys didn’t do that, not around the guys, at least. Sometimes, though, she would comment on the heavy stench of smoke wafting through the room. Jorah always put out his cigar when she did, just out of respect.

Drogo usually ignored her until he was about three or four beers in. That was about the time his mood would shift, his attention straying from the cards to his wife. When she came around with more drinks, he would pull her into his lap despite her objections. “C’mere, gimme a kiss for good luck,” he’d cajole, nuzzling her neck.

“Khal, please,” she’d demure with an embarrassed laugh, her face turning red as she glanced around the table. In those moments, Snow and Grenn never said anything, but Trant and Slynt always hooted in approval, especially when Drogo started rubbing her thighs or neck. It was a game, a show for them, and he’d only let her up after she granted him the kiss, slapping her ass before she begged off back to the kitchen.

“You’re one lucky bastard, Drogo,” Slynt commented once as Daenerys scurried out of the room. Jorah didn’t like the way the bald man leered after her. “I bet she really knows how to please a man in the sack, eh?”

Trant laughed, but Drogo’s face darkened. “You thinkin’ ‘bout fucking my wife, Slynt?”

Slynt started to laugh but immediately sobered when he realized Drogo was serious. He turned ashen, and everyone went still. “N-no, of course not, man, come on. It was just a joke.”

“Good.” Drogo laughed suddenly, breaking the tension. “And let’s just say I’ve trained her well.” They all laughed at that. All but Snow, anyway.

That was the thing about Drogo. When he was drinking, his temper was on a hair-trigger, and you never knew when you might inadvertently trip it.

* * *

Drogo grew increasingly more possessive toward his wife. The shift was gradual—not so much as to be completely unnoticeable, but enough so that nobody commented on it.

His grip on her arm became just a little too tight, his tone just a little too sharp. His teasing became more disparaging, more biting. Everything she did seemed to irritate him; he’d berate her for the nuts being too salty or for spilling beer on the table when she brought him a fresh pint.

“For fuck’s sake, woman, you’re distracting everyone,” he snapped at her as she sopped up the spillage with a napkin. Her lips thinned, color rising in her cheeks, but she didn’t say anything, hurrying out of the room as soon as she was done. Thankfully, Grenn cracked some joke about needing a distraction from his shitty hand, and the others laughed a bit too loudly, brushing right by the moment.

Discarding his hand, Snow excused himself from the turn, announcing he had to take a piss as he got up from the table. Jorah suspected he really meant to check on Daenerys.

That was decent of him, at least. Someone should make sure she was OK. If Drogo weren’t his partner, Jorah liked to think he’d do it. See if she needed anything, let her know her efforts weren’t going unappreciated. Maybe he’d even tell Drogo to knock it off, ease up on her a little.

But at the end of the day, it really wasn’t any of his business. What happened in another man’s home didn’t concern him or anyone else, it was as simple as that.

If she were _his_ wife, though...Jorah liked to think he’d be a better husband to her than Drogo. He would cherish her. Worship her. Daenerys was the kind of woman Jorah had always dreamed about: beautiful, loyal and devoted. Nothing like Lynesse had been, though she’d certainly had him fooled in the beginning.

Maybe Daenerys had Drogo fooled, too—but, no, she was a good woman, Jorah could tell. She’d never betray her husband, not like Lynesse had. Daenerys would never leave him for another man—some flashy, simpering playboy she worked with. From what Drogo had told him, Daenerys didn’t even work; he’d made her quit her job when they married, assuring her he could support them on his salary alone. He wanted a wife completely devoted to the household, a wife who cooked and cleaned and catered to his every need.

Jorah envied Drogo, truly. He had it made. Daenerys did, too. They had no children to take care of yet, so while her husband was at work or with friends, she had the house to herself. Sometimes, when they were at the bar, Drogo would complain about how lazy she was. The laundry was always unfinished, the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes. Was it too much to ask that she clean the house since she was home all day? What else did she have to do with her time, after all? And how hard was it to make sure there was a hot meal waiting on the table for her husband the moment he got home? Especially when he worked so hard to provide for her. It was the least she could do.

“She doesn’t respect me,” Drogo complained over beers at their usual haunt. “I work so hard, I bust my balls to give her everything she could ever want, and it’s _still_ not enough. She’s never satisfied. She just makes me _so fucking angry_ , Mormont, I swear, sometimes I could just—”

He didn’t finish the thought, but Jorah knew. He understood his partner’s frustrations. It’d been like that with Lynesse, too; nothing he’d done for her ever seemed to be good enough.

Now, don’t get him wrong—he didn’t believe in putting his hands on a woman, of course he didn’t, he would never. But, well, Drogo wasn’t him. He was a big guy who just didn’t know his own strength sometimes.

So, if he were truly being honest, Jorah couldn’t say he was all that surprised when he started noticing the bruises. The fading black eyes that makeup couldn’t quite camouflage, the marks around her wrists that would peek out from under her long sleeves when she’d reach across the table.

It certainly wasn’t how he would treat a woman like her. Maybe there’d been a few times—during some of their nastier, knock-down, drag-out fights—where he’d grabbed Lynesse, given her a little shake or something, but it had never been hard enough to bruise or anything, and that was the god’s honest truth. And it wasn’t like she’d never slapped him in the middle of a heated argument, too. He never put his hands on her when he was sober. Unfortunately, alcohol made him do stupid things, and he always did things he regretted when he was drunk.

Like that time at Drogo’s birthday party. He'd definitely drank too much that night. When Daenerys had asked for help with the cake, Jorah had immediately volunteered and followed her into the kitchen. She’d been wearing this tight, little black number, and she’d just smelled so good. He’d wanted to kiss her—he had a vague recollection of pinning her against the counter, her quiet admonishment, “ _Jorah, please_ ” in his ear—and then fucking Snow was there, asking if she needed a light for the candles. She’d just smiled like nothing was amiss, walking out of the kitchen with the cake.

They never spoke about that moment. Thankfully, she’d never mentioned it to Drogo. Jorah was ashamed of his behavior. And—well, she’d obviously made her choice, hadn’t she? She chose Drogo, for better or for worse, those were the vows. If she wanted an out, she could have taken it. Jorah would have given her one. But—anyway, that was that.

Jorah wasn’t the only one looking the other way. They all did. There was just an unspoken agreement, a code: A man’s wife was his to deal with. Jorah knew he wouldn’t like another man sticking his nose in _his_ business, either. There was a certain way to approach this kind of thing, man to man, especially when that man was a friend.

Snow didn’t get this. But Jorah didn’t expect any better from a man who’d never been married himself. He didn’t know how these things were done, didn’t know how to keep his fucking mouth shut. It was no wonder he wasn’t really friends with anyone in their group.

The night Daenerys’ black eye was just a little too obvious to ignore, Snow finally crossed that line with Drogo. When she brought out a beer for her husband, the dumb bastard looked her right in the eye and asked, “How’d you get the black eye?”

Everyone at the table had gone still, all eyes on her and Drogo. But Daenerys didn’t miss a beat, holding Snow’s gaze as she replied evenly, “Ran into a door.”

How many times had Jorah heard that one before? Called for a domestic disturbance only for the wife to change her mind and swear it was only a misunderstanding, even as blood dripped from her nose.

Everyone else went back to pretending to study their cards. Drogo forced a smile, giving his wife a hard look. “She’s always been a bit clumsy, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

“Guess the door must have had too much to drink,” Snow said flatly, this time leveling his gaze at Drogo. His partner looked positively murderous. Jorah was glad he didn’t have his department-issued service pistol at hand.

After that, Snow stopped coming around for poker night. Truthfully, Jorah wouldn’t miss him.

* * *

He was asleep when he got the call. Disoriented, he checked the time first. It was only 6:30 in the morning. Caller ID identified the caller as Grenn. Annoyed, Jorah answered with a growl. “This better be good.”

Silence greeted him. For a moment, Jorah almost pulled his phone away to make sure he’d hit answer instead of decline when Grenn finally spoke. “Hey.” He cleared his throat. “Really sorry to disturb you, but...it’s Drogo, man. I—”

Instantly, Jorah was on alert. He sat up in his bed. “What? _Spit it out_.”

“He’s...he’s dead, man. We’re at his house now. Daenerys called it in around six this morning,” he said quietly. “I thought you’d want to hear it from someone—”

Jorah had already hung up, careening out of bed to get dressed.

Drogo. His partner. _Dead_. How was that even possible? He’d just seen him last night—mere hours ago! They had drinks at the bar together, gotten a little too drunk. Jorah had gotten his partner an Uber home, even helped him into the backseat himself. But he was fine, nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.

So what the fuck happened once he’d gotten home?

* * *

When he pulled up to Drogo’s house, he barely managed to put his car in park before throwing his door open. The street was already crowded with an ambulance, a fire truck and cop cars. It was only seven in the morning, but the whole neighborhood appeared to be awake and camped out on their lawns, watching the scene unfold. Jorah wanted to yell at them to go back inside, this wasn’t a fucking TV show for fuck’s sake, but then he saw the paramedics wheeling a stretcher down the front walkway.

Grenn had warned him, but Jorah was still stunned to see the body bag. He watched them lift the stretcher into the back of the M.E. van before slamming the doors shut. The sound jarred him from his stupor, and then he was moving forward, boots slipping across the dewy grass.

He spotted Daenerys in the front yard, her eyes red from crying. One of their cops was talking to her—Sam Tarly, a fucking _rookie_. But it was the other man with them that really needled him. Snow was there at her side, his arms folded over his chest, listening intently as Tarly talked. When Daenerys said something, Snow put a hand on her back in a comforting gesture, rubbing soothingly.

At that, Jorah saw red. He headed right for them, blowing past Grenn and Trant. “Mormont,” Grenn called out to him, bewildered, but Jorah ignored him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded when he was close enough, startling the three of them. Tarly and Daenerys looked perplexed, but Snow’s face didn’t change. Jorah repeated himself, glaring right at Snow. “ _What the fuck are you doing here?_ ”

“I’m the ME,” Snow answered calmly. “I’m here to pick up the body. That’s what my office does.”

“You’re not even going to take him to the fucking hospital first?” Jorah demanded, an angry flush creeping up his neck.

“Detective Mormont,” Tarly began nervously, reaching an arm out between them. “We’re just following procedure—”

“So why is he in a body bag? Why aren’t the paramedics trying to revive him?”

“He was dead when the paramedics arrived, Mormont,” Snow said. “There was nothing that could be done.”

His cool demeanor rankled. “Bullshit—”

“Detective Mormont, please,” Tarly tried again. “This is all standard. Just let us do our job—”

“He’s my partner, dammit! He’s one of us!” Jorah bellowed. “Why isn’t there any crime tape up? Why isn’t the road blocked off? Why aren’t you fucking morons canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone witnessed anything strange last night?”

“There’s been no crime,” Snow told him, and Jorah shot him another glare.

“You don’t know that. He was fine last night. I just saw him! What the hell happened?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Snow replied. “I’ll examine the body. Drogo’s wife has already consented to an autopsy.”

Jorah shook his head. “No—no, I don’t trust you—”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not your call to make.”

“Detective Mormont, please, you’re upsetting his wife,” Tarly said anxiously, and Jorah finally snapped out of his haze to see that Daenerys was crying again, her hand muffling her sobs. Immediately, he was contrite.

“I’m sorry. Daenerys. I—”

“I think you’ve done enough, detective,” Snow said flatly. Behind him, Grenn and Trant approached, and Snow put his hand on Daenerys’ back again as her whole body shook with wracking sobs. “Maybe you should leave and let Tarly finish up with Dany.”

“Come on, man,” Grenn said quietly, settling his hand on Jorah’s arm. “I’ll take you home.” Distraught, Jorah stared at Daenerys, feeling absolutely helpless. Finally, he relented, letting Grenn lead him away.

It wasn’t till he was sitting in the passenger seat of his own car, Grenn at the wheel as he pulled away from the curb, that he finally wondered: _Who the fuck is Dany?_

* * *

Jorah wanted to get back to work immediately, but his captain, who also happened to be his father, forced him to take some time off. “Losing a partner is hard,” Jeor told him, despite his son’s insistence that he was fine. “This is tough for us all.”

“I should be here. I can help with the investigation,” Jorah said stiffly.

“That’s the M.E.’s job now. Once the report is in, I’ll let you know.”

Jorah fisted his hands at his sides. “I don’t think he’s the right person for the job, captain.”

Jeor gave him a pitying look. “You’re upset. You can’t do your job properly like this.”

“ _I’m not upset_ ,” Jorah sneered.

“This happened during your divorce, too. You’re not any good to us in this state.”

At his father’s reprimand, heat washed through him. When he started to object, Jeor cut him off with a steely look. “Take the week off, detective. I’m not asking.”

Angrily, Jorah stormed out of the captain’s office. As he left, the other detectives fell quiet, watching him go. Only Grenn had the balls to approach him at the elevator, squeezing his shoulder in support. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

The doors opened. Shrugging off his hand, Jorah stomped onto the elevator and punched the button for the bottom floor. As he was leaving through the front doors of the precinct, however, he passed Daenerys on her way into the building. A willowy, brown-skinned woman led her up the steps, her arm around her shoulders. Jorah stopped to stare at her. Her face was drawn, pale, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Seeing her now, he was reminded of his earlier behavior at her house and felt ashamed.

He took a step toward her. “Mrs. Drogo—Daenerys—”

She glanced at him, but it was like she didn’t really see him. “I’m sorry,” he called out to her lamely. Only then did she acknowledge him, with just the briefest of nods. Then her pretty friend was whisking her inside, and Jorah was left watching her through the tinted glass doors as they swung shut behind her.

* * *

Despite his captain’s orders, Jorah wasn’t content to sit around his house with his thumb up his ass. He gave it one day, and then he drove straight to the medical examiner’s office. At the front desk, he flashed his badge to the clerk. Gilly, a woman with a round face and buck teeth, waved him through.

“Dr. Snow is—”

“I know where he is,” Jorah snapped. By now he’d been here for enough cases to know.

He found Snow in the morgue, standing at the sink in his protective gear as he washed his hands. The smell of decomposition and chemicals hit Jorah hard, making his stomach churn. He came to a dead stop when he saw the body on the autopsy table, a sheet pulled up over the head. Next to it, on a tray, were an array of tools—saws, needles, scalpels. He thought he might throw up.

Snow looked over his shoulder at him. Seeing Jorah’s pinched expression, he became amused.

“Don’t worry. That’s not your partner,” he said, grabbing a handful of paper towels to dry off his hands. Jorah swallowed against the nausea and tore his eyes away from the corpse. “I finished with him yesterday. I sent the preliminary report to the captain this morning.”

“So then you can tell me what you found,” Jorah demanded hoarsely. Being in this place always gave him the fucking creeps, and he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

“His wife hasn’t even been informed yet,” Snow said, irritated, as he turned to face him.

“He’s my partner. I have a right to know,” Jorah insisted. “I can tell her myself. She’ll want to hear it from someone close to her. Someone who knows—who knew him.”

Trashing the paper towels, Snow stared at him for a long minute then let out a sigh. “It’s not conclusive yet, but it looks like he had a heart attack in his sleep.”

 _A heart attack_? Incredulous, Jorah shook his head. “No. That’s—that’s damn near impossible. Drogo was younger than me, dammit! He was healthy as a horse.”

“Apparently not. He showed signs of advanced heart disease,” Snow explained.

Jorah refused to believe that. “That doesn’t make any sense. You knew him. Did he seem sick to you?”

“It could be genetic,” Snow said, folding his arms over his chest. “Something overlooked at birth. But without having seen his medical records or a family history yet, I can’t say for sure.”

“He exercised all the time. He was always lifting weights,” Jorah said stubbornly.

“He also drank all the time,” Snow pointed out. Jorah scowled

“We’re cops. We all fucking drink.”

Undeterred, Snow continued, “He smoked. He ate more red meat than I’ve ever seen one man eat. Who knows what else he did when no one else was looking.”

“What are you suggesting, Snow?” Jorah growled.

He shrugged. “Nothing. Only that sometimes these things happen.”

Jorah ran a hand through his thinning hair. “It just doesn’t make _sense_. There’s gotta be something else. What about the toxicology report? Did you run his blood work?”

“You know as well as I do that it takes more than a day to get those results back,” Snow said.

“What about the stomach contents? Anything unusual there—”

Snow interrupted him. “What exactly are you expecting to find, detective?” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed. “What are _you_ suggesting? Foul play? You think—what? That somehow his _wife_ poisoned him? Killed him while he slept, maybe? Is that what you mean to imply?”

Jorah faltered before glowering at the other man. “No. Of course not. I know Daenerys would never—she loved him. But someone else…”

Snow’s eyebrows rose, mocking him. “Broke into the house and killed her husband in the bed next to her without her ever waking up?”

With a scowl, Jorah rubbed at his jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it _was_ Daenerys. Cases like this, we’re taught to suspect the spouse because more often than not, it _is_ the spouse. And we know—” He caught himself. “We know things were...tense between them.”

Snow held his gaze. Challenging him. “Are you saying there was abuse in their marriage, detective? That Drogo abused his wife?”

Jorah’s jaw ticked. “I’m not saying anything,” he said through gritted teeth, and they lapsed into a silent standoff.

After a moment, Snow dropped his arms and pushed off the sink. “Once all the lab results are in, I’ll provide a detailed report to your captain,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got to get back to work.”

At his curt dismissal, Jorah pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the morgue, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Drogo’s funeral was a week later.

Anytime one of their own fell, the city spared no expense on the service. Drogo was no different, receiving full honors from the police department. Jorah acted as one of the pallbearers, along with Grenn, Trant, Slynt, and two other detectives from their precinct. Following the service, a full police escort led the procession to the cemetery where he was to be laid to rest. Nearly every officer in his precinct was present. At the grave, they removed the flag from the casket and folded it before presenting it to his wife. Then they concluded the service with a three-volley salute.

Afterward, the line to offer Daenerys condolences was long. She was his only kin in attendance. In all the time he’d known him, Jorah never really heard Drogo talk about his family, but it sounded like his parents were long dead. Daenerys wasn’t alone, though; her pretty friend from the other day stood beside her, offering her moral support as she shook hands or hugged each and every mourner who greeted her.

As he waited in line, Jorah couldn’t help but stare at her. Even in her grief, he was struck by her beauty. The setting sun painted her silver hair gold, casting her in a fiery halo. Her lips and cheeks were chapped pink by the cool autumn breeze, and her pale, milky skin stood in sharp contrast to her black mourning garb.

She’d always been beautiful to him, but tragedy had truly made her sublime.

When it was finally his turn, he grasped her hand tightly, ducking his head to meet her violet-hued gaze. In this light, her eyes sparkled like constellations, and for a moment, he was completely at a loss for words.

“Jorah, thank you for coming,” she said quietly when he failed to speak first.

“Daenerys,” he breathed out, giving himself a quick shake. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she murmured, resting her hand on top of his. “I know you and Drogo were close. No one knew him quite like you did, did they?”

Jorah stared at her, wondering what she meant by that. Did she know—the things he and Drogo talked about...? “Sorry—I don’t—”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes watery as she gave him a wavering smile. “You were his partner. You had a bond like no one else, I’m sure.”

His shoulders sagged slightly. Of course. That was all she meant. Swallowing dryly, Jorah nodded. “I’ll miss him. The job won’t be the same without him. If you need anything—and I mean anything at all—please don’t hesitate to call me. Any time, day or night, whatever it is. I’ll be there for you.”

She smiled, and he reeled from the sight of it. “Thank you, Jorah. But I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

“Never,” he swore.

She let go of his hand, and then he had no choice but to move out of the receiving line so she could greet the others. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, however, so he stood off to the side, some yards away from the casket. A few of the officers from his precinct came over to offer him their condolences, as well. Drogo had been a good detective, they told him with solemn remembrance.

What they left unsaid, Jorah still heard loud and clear: _A good detective, but not much of a good man._

“Now who’s going to host poker night, eh?” Slynt asked when he stopped at Jorah’s side. He flashed a grim smile to soften his joke, but Jorah could tell he was a little put out about it.

“I’ll try to get something going at my place,” Jorah offered, his voice gruff. Slynt clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Sure hope the scenery looks as good at your place as it did at Drogo’s, if you know what I mean,” Slynt said, glancing in Daenerys’ direction. Jorah bristled.

“Have some respect,” he warned. “Her husband just died.”

With a shrug, Janos sniffed dismissively. “I’m just saying. A woman like that won’t stay a widow for long.”

He wandered off without another word, leaving Jorah with a growing ball of dread in the pit of his stomach. When he looked toward Daenerys again, he saw that she was finally leaving the cemetery, her friend at her side as they made their way to a car that idled nearby. He started after her but stopped when he noticed the lone figure waiting at the car. Leaning against the passenger side door, Jon Snow smoked a cigarette, his black suit jacket draped over his arm, tie tugged loose around his collar. When Daenerys approached, he put out his cigarette under the heel of his dress shoe and pushed off the car to open the door for her. As her friend got in the backseat, Snow squeezed Daenerys’ hand, leaning close to say something into her ear. With a nod, she climbed inside, and he shut the door before walking around to the driver’s side to get in.

Jorah watched them drive away, standing there among the headstones long after the car was gone.

* * *

Without Drogo, life went on. Jorah returned to work, mercifully transitioning back onto his beat after only a few days of desk duty. It was strange at first without his partner, but he soon found his groove working on his own. The captain gave him relatively open-and-shut cases to ease him back in, which pissed him off, but he wasn’t one to complain. He kept his head down and did the work. Arguing would only show his father he couldn’t handle the situation, and Jorah wanted to prove that his abilities as a detective weren’t reliant on who his partner was.

A month passed before the detailed autopsy report was finally completed. Jorah returned from lunch to find a copy of it sitting on his desk, with a sticky note from the captain that read, _Just got this from the M.E. office. Thought you’d like to take a look—JM._

Jorah opened the folder and quickly skimmed to the bottom of the top sheet for the salient information.

> `**Probable cause of death:** Sudden cardiac arrest, resulting from coronary heart disease`  
>  `**Manner of death:** Natural`
> 
> Jon Snow   
>  `Jon E. Snow, M.D.`  
>  `Signature of Chief Medical Examiner`

Clenching his jaw, Jorah jumped back to the beginning to carefully read through the details this time.

> `**General External Examination:** Body of the decedent is that of a normally developed 42-year-old male, measuring at 6 feet 1 inch and weighing 226 pounds. Fixed lividity is present in the posterior dependent of the body indicating decedent had been dead for at least two hours prior to transportation from residence to morgue. Rigor mortis is present in all major muscle groups.`

Next followed standard descriptors of scars, tattoos and other personal effects. Jorah flipped through the pages until he came to the internal examination notes.

> `**Gastric Contents:** The stomach contains approximately 700 mL of dark brown liquid and gray-food particulate matter as well as partially dissolved capsules.`

Jorah frowned. Capsules? Eagerly. he flipped to the toxicology report in the back.

> `**Positive Findings:** Caffeine, ethanol, methanol, acetone, amphetamine, and benzodiazepine.`

Flummoxed, he sat back in his chair. He didn’t know Drogo to be on any drugs. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he called up Grenn. The other detective answered on the third ring.

“Talk to me,” he greeted.

“You’re friends with Tarly, aren’t you? The officer who was at Drogo’s house the morning he died?” Jorah asked. When Grenn confirmed, Jorah grabbed a notepad and a pen. “Let me get his cell.”

After Grenn rattled it off, Jorah hung up to punch in the number he’d scribbled down, hoping Tarly wasn’t in the middle of responding to a call. Just before voicemail could pick up, Tarly answered, sounding kind of breathless. “Hello?” came his perpetually nervous-sounding voice.

“Tarly, it’s Detective Mormont. I had a question about Detective Drogo’s case.”

“Oh. Sure.” He sounded mildly confused. “What’s your question?”

Jorah glanced back at the report on his desk. “I’m looking at the autopsy. Did you or another officer do a search of the residence?”

“Mrs. Drogo allowed us into the house to search the bedroom where he died—er, where he was, you know, found.”

“Did you find any prescription drugs when you were looking?”

“From what I remember, yes, there were a number of prescription bottles in the nightstand as well as in the bathroom.”

“Any amphetamines?” Jorah asked.

“Ahh—I don’t have my notes in front of me, but I believe we found a couple bottles of Adderall and Ritalin. They were prescribed to Detective Drogo.”

Jorah’s shoulders slumped as he let out a breath. “Damn. He never mentioned anything about that to me.”

“My brother takes Adderall. For ADHD,” Tarly offered unprompted, then sheepishly added, “Actually, he might not like me telling people that.”

Jorah rolled his eyes to himself. “Were there any other prescription drugs that you remember?”

“Um...I believe a prescription for, uh, Flunitrazepam, I think? That was prescribed to Mrs. Drogo.”

“Flunitrazepam,” Jorah repeated, puzzled. It sounded familiar, but he didn’t know why. “Any idea what that is?”

“Sleeping pills. She said sometimes Detective Drogo would take one if he had trouble sleeping, too.”

Jorah squinted at the report, his eyes following his finger as he read through the findings again. “That must be the benzodiazepine, then.” He shook his head. Drogo was mixing uppers and downers like a fucking idiot. It shouldn’t surprise him. All that undue stress on his heart probably helped contribute to his death.

“Guess so. Anything else I can help you with, Detective Mormont? They don’t really like us being on our personal phones when we’re on duty,” he said nervously.

“That’s all. Thanks.” He hung up before Tarly could reply.

That was that, then. His partner had died of your run-of-the-mill heart attack, likely helped along by his abuse of prescription drugs. A tragedy for someone as young as he was, but—well, life could be a harsh mistress, he supposed.

Shaking his head sadly, Jorah closed the report, shoved it into one of his drawers, and got back to work.

* * *

Within a few weeks, Jorah had a new partner: Daario Naharis, a new guy who’d transferred from another precinct. He was young and cocky—almost as arrogant as Drogo had been, but luckily he was still a little green behind the ears. Frankly, he annoyed the hell out of Jorah, but he knew to toe the line, at least. He was eager to make a good impression on their unit and the captain.

When Drogo had been his partner, Drogo had always been the domineering one between the two of them, a natural-born leader who’d always taken point on cases. But now Daario deferred to Jorah, asking for his opinion, waiting for his direction, seeking his approval.

It was nice to be in charge for once. It made him feel confident in a way he hadn’t felt in a while, not since Lynesse had left him.

He was feeling like a new man. And as a new man, he decided he needed a new look. On one of his days off, he made a trip to the barber for a haircut. Granted, it wasn’t much different from his usual style, but this time he went to a high-end barber instead of the one in the strip mall by his house. They also shaved off his beard using a straight-edge razor. It was the first time he’d seen his chin in over a decade.

When he got home, Jorah changed into a new pair of slacks and a blue checkered button-down shirt he’d bought on his way home. He debated wearing a tie with it but ultimately decided against it, undoing the button at his collar for a more casual look. In the mirror, Jorah self-consciously smoothed down his newly trimmed hair on top and gave himself a final once-over before grabbing his coat and his car keys on his way out the door.

On his drive, he made a quick detour to the florist. He didn’t know the first thing about flowers, so he asked the woman behind the counter for her most expensive bouquet. Happily, she picked one out for him, tying a white ribbon around the arrangement.

“What a lucky lady! I’m sure she’ll love them,” the clerk gushed, smiling prettily when he took the bunch from her. As he left the store, Jorah smiled to himself; going to the barber had been a good idea, after all.

When he pulled up to Drogo’s house, however, he sobered a bit. He supposed it was technically Daenerys’ house now. He hadn’t been back since _that_ morning more than two months ago.

 _I’m just a friend, checking in on her,_ he told himself. Surely, it was what Drogo would have wanted. Gathering the bouquet in his arm, Jorah got out of his car and followed the walkway up to the front door. His heart pounding, he had to wipe his hand on his khakis before he knocked.

A moment later, the door opened, and Daenerys’ face appeared on the other side. She looked surprised. “Jorah?”

He cleared his throat. “Daenerys. Hello. I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.” He thrust the flowers toward her. “These are for you.”

Opening the door wider, she accepted them from him. “Oh. That’s so thoughtful of you, thank you. They’re beautiful.” She looked at him with a smile. “Would you like to come in?”

His heart soared. “Yes, thank you.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you without the beard,” she remarked as she waved him inside. Stepping over the threshold, already he could tell the house was different. The decor wasn’t what he remembered, and there was a decidedly more feminine touch to the color palette and the art hanging on the walls. As he followed her down the front hallway, he noticed the large wedding portrait of Drogo and Daenerys was missing. That was odd. Still, he couldn’t deny he was grateful to not have his old partner looking down on him right then.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he told her. “It feels homier somehow.”

“Thank you. I just felt like I needed a change,” she said over her shoulder, smiling slightly. Once they were in the living room, she called out, “Honey, look who stopped by.”

At her words, Jorah’s heart stopped. She said it so casually, so carelessly, he didn’t know what to think, and for one bewildered moment, he half-expected to see Drogo come around the corner—as if the last few weeks had never happened, as if it were all just some lucid dream.

Drogo didn’t materialize—but Jorah still felt like he was looking at a ghost.

As he emerged from the kitchen, Jon Snow smiled at him. “Mormont,” he greeted easily. All Jorah could do was gape at him.

Daenerys held out the flowers. “He brought flowers. Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

Snow studied the bouquet. “So thoughtful. Peonies, chrysanthemums, calla lilies. Wow. That must have cost you a small fortune, huh?” At Snow’s knowing smile, Jorah went hot.

“I’m going to put these in water,” Daenerys said before giving Snow a brief kiss on the lips, her left hand coming up to rest against his chest. Jorah did a double-take, seeing her wedding ring was gone, too. His stomach sank as he watched them together, the ease and intimacy with which they interacted with each other.

Once she disappeared into the kitchen, he turned his accusatory glare on Snow. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?” he hissed.

Snow looked at him innocently. “What does it look like I’m doing, Mormont? I’m making dinner with my girlfriend in our house.”

His jaw dropped, and his thoughts fractured. For a moment, he couldn’t say anything. _What the fuck is happening here?_ Then, just like that, he understood completely. “You’re a fucking scumbag, you know that?” he snarled. “Taking advantage of a grieving widow like this. You’re a _fucking pig_.”

Infuriatingly, the other man just looked amused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lifted his eyebrows mockingly. “Tell me, detective. Do you bring flowers to all the grieving widows you know?”

Jorah flushed in shame but disguised it with a glower. “She’s a friend. Her husband was my goddamn partner. Of course, I would bring her flowers.” He jabbed a finger at him. “What _you’re_ doing is beyond fucked up. Her husband’s body is barely even cold yet, and you’ve somehow tricked her into letting you move in with her. What’s your game here, Snow? You trying to get your grubby hands on that pension money?”

Unperturbed, Snow chuffed. “I don’t give a fuck about money, and frankly I resent the accusation, _detective_.” Despite the severity of his words, he shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve been helping Dany after the funeral. What developed between us was just a natural result of spending more time together.”

There it was again, that nickname: _Dany_. Jorah seethed. “ _You fucking_ —”

Daenerys returned then and, sensing the tension in the room, she frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Jorah pivoted toward her and tried to appeal to her. “Daenerys—I don’t know what this asshole has said to you, what lies he’s filled your head with, but I can help you—”

In an instant, her face turned to stone. She folded her arms over her chest. “Jorah, please,” she said coolly. “You’re out of line.”

His mouth gaped open. “I don’t—I don’t understand,” he finally said, looking wildly between them. Snow reached an arm out and wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking her against his side. Jorah stared at them helplessly. “I don’t understand what’s going on here. Help me understand, Daenerys.”

“Well, I would think it’s pretty obvious by now, Mormont,” Snow said easily, glancing down at Daenerys. She turned her face up to his, and at her smile, his face softened. “We’re in love.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. “ _What_? You can’t—you can’t be fucking serious.”

Daenerys blushed lightly and gave him a pleading look. “Jorah, I know it might seem fast, but the truth is...Jon and I have known each other for a long time.”

Reeling, he staggered backward. “You two already knew each other?” he croaked out.

She bit at her lip and looked up at Jon again. He smiled as he answered for her. “We dated in high school. Dany was the new girl. I was just some quiet loner in the back of the room. The moment I saw her, I knew I was in love. But I was too shy to talk to her. I don’t think she ever would have noticed me if the teacher hadn’t put us on the same group project.”

At the memory, Daenerys laughed. “And thank god he did. You and I were the only ones who did any work.”

He chuckled. “She would come to my house to work on it after school. After a few weeks, I finally got up the nerve to ask her out.”

She grinned. “That was the first time I kissed you. Remember?”

Jon brushed a lock of her hair off her face with his thumb. “How could I forget? I felt like the luckiest bastard in the world.” His smile slipped. “But then your family had to move again. We fell out of touch, and I thought I’d lost you forever. I never expected to see you again.” He shook his head. “And then I did. Two years ago. At that department holiday party. On another man’s arm.”

“Two years ago,” Jorah repeated as he struggled to remember that far back, to the holiday party the precinct held every year in one of the conference rooms they rented at the nearby hotel. That was the year Drogo had joined his unit and became his partner. Jorah had been attending the parties for years, but it was Drogo’s first. He remembered now, the red, long-sleeved dress Daenerys had been wearing, the plunging neckline, the soft sweep of her silver-gold hair over her shoulder.

He remembered Drogo drinking a lot and being slightly annoyed by his loud behavior, but everyone always drank too much at those parties. Jorah had, too; he and Lynesse were on the rocks then, and at the last minute she’d refused to go to the party with him. Jorah had spotted Daenerys alone at the hors d'oeuvres table and had been working up the courage to approach her when he saw Snow beat him to it. He’d moved in close to talk to her, the look on his face urgent. Jorah remembered thinking it was a bit strange. How would the medical examiner know Drogo’s wife? Drogo was nowhere nearby, and both Snow and Daenerys were getting increasingly upset as they talked. Eventually, Daenerys had walked away, and Jorah watched Snow stalk outside for a smoke. He’d thought to corner the man and ask him what the hell was going on, but he’d kept drinking instead, and the rest of the night became a drunken blur. By the next day, he’d forgotten all about that bizarre interaction—until now.

He stared at them, his alarm growing. “You...you two...this was all planned. You two did this.”

Daenerys looked at him, a tiny frown furrowing her brow. “Did what?”

“ _This_! You two!” He gestured to them wildly. “Drogo! You did something to him, didn’t you?”

“Drogo had a heart attack, detective,” Snow said evenly, and Jorah bared his teeth at him.

“Yes, how convenient _you_ should be the one to decide that, isn’t it? You two cooked this up together!”

Daenerys gave him a pitying look. “Khal was nearly three times my size, Jorah. How could I possibly do anything to him?”

“I don’t know—you poisoned him, you—you—” His eyes widened as it suddenly hit him. “Oh my god. The sleeping pills. Flunitrazepam. I remember now. I remember why that name sounded so fucking familiar. It’s _Rohypnol_. Even a little bit can completely incapacitate a person. And it was in his system that night. It was on the toxicology report.”

Her mouth tightened. “I already told the cops Drogo had a habit of taking my sleeping pills. If he took one that night, I don’t know. I was already asleep by the time he got home from the bar. Where he’d been all night with _you_.”

“Maybe you didn’t give it to him, but you knew he took them. You waited until he was out cold and then you—you…”

“And then I what?” she prompted, her eyebrow raised in challenge.

“I don’t know. You—you strangled him. No—there were no ligature marks so you’d have to do it some other way not easily detected.” His mind was racing ahead of him. “You’d have to suffocate him then. A pillow over the face, maybe. Fuck, I don’t know, but there’s a dozen different ways to do it and make it look like an accident. I’ve seen enough cases like this. The wife gets sick of her husband beating up on her, so she slips something in his drink and—”

Snow interrupted him, “You’ve seen enough cases like this, and yet you did nothing.”

Jorah stopped and stared at him. “What?”

Snow tightened his arm around Daenerys, who looked away. “You knew Drogo was hurting her, and you did nothing to help her. Is that what you’re saying?”

Jorah glanced between Snow and Daenerys. “No—I didn’t say that—”

“You just did,” Snow said coldly. Jorah shook his head, angry.

“I didn’t _know_ anything!”

“You didn’t know what he was doing to his own wife? Even though he was your partner? Even though you could see the evidence on her face?”

Jorah’s face went hot with shame. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t my business. It wasn’t my _place_ to tell a man what to do about _his own wife_ —”

“Not your business,” Snow repeated, disgusted. “Even though you’re a cop.”

“If she needed help, she could have called—”

“Called who? His partner? She was going to call the cops on another cop? Come on, Mormont. I know you’re not that stupid.” He rubbed Daenerys’ arm. “You don’t need to worry, though. She got the help she needed.”

Slowly, Jorah shook his head in disbelief. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Get away with what?” Snow asked without guile. “There was no crime, detective. Drogo died of a heart attack, and that’s what the death certificate says.”

Jorah glared at him. “He was one of us. He was my _friend_.”

Snow let out a low, dry laugh. “Your friend. Did you even _like_ the man, Mormont?” When he didn’t immediately answer, Snow continued, “Come on. You can be honest with us. He’s not here anymore. Don’t you feel just a little bit...happier? Freer, even? Not being in his shadow anymore? Aren’t you glad to be the star detective for once, finally getting the respect and recognition you deserve now that your partner isn’t the one stealing the spotlight?”

Jorah didn’t have a rebuttal, and in the silence that followed, Snow gave a nod. A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Give it some time, Mormont. I think you’ll find this situation to be quite... _beneficial_ to us all.”

With that, Snow pressed a kiss to the crown of Daenerys’ head. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “OK, love?” Jorah heard him murmur, and she nodded. He lifted his head to level a hard look at Jorah. “We really should get back to the kitchen. I’m afraid we were in the middle of making dinner when you stopped by.”

Jorah found himself at a loss for words. Daenerys pulled away from Snow’s side and crossed to him, giving him a soft smile. “Thank you. For the flowers. You’re very sweet, Jorah.” She kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand. “Maybe you can join us for dinner one night? When you’re free?”

All he could do was nod dumbly. They walked him to the door, and Jorah left without another word to either. In his car, he looked back at the house and saw they were still watching him from the doorway, Snow standing behind Daenerys. His arms were wrapped around her waist as she leaned back in his embrace, and she lifted a hand in farewell.

Jorah didn’t return the wave, his tires squealing as he peeled away from the curb.

* * *

At the sharp knock on his open office door, the captain glanced up from his computer screen. “Detective.”

“You got a minute, captain?” Jorah asked in the doorway, his jaw tight.

With a nod, Jeor took off his reading glasses. “Have a seat.”

Jorah shut the door behind him then sat down in the chair in front of the captain’s desk. His mind was still reeling from yesterday's confrontation with Snow and Daenerys. He’d tried to sleep on it, debating what to do, before finally deciding he had to bring it to the captain. Drogo was one of them. If it had been Jorah in that casket, he’d hope his partner would do the same for him.

“I want to talk to you—”

Jeor cut him off. “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you, as well.”

Jorah’s heartbeat ticked up. “You have?”

His father nodded gravely. “I just wanted to say—your efforts around here since Detective Drogo’s unfortunate passing haven’t gone unnoticed. By me or your peers.”

Jorah blinked, not understanding. “Sir?”

“I admit, in the wake of your partner’s death, I questioned your drive and your focus. I was afraid you might buckle under the strain. But you’ve really stepped up. You haven’t let your caseload fall by the wayside, and you’ve been an exemplary detective. Thanks to your guidance and leadership, Detective Naharis has been able to settle in without any problem.”

Speechless, Jorah stared at the captain. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had praised him, especially on the job.

Jeor continued, his tone conciliatory. “I was wrong to doubt you, detective. I just wanted you to know I’m proud of the work you’ve put in lately.”

Jorah finally found his voice. “Thank you, captain.”

Clearing his throat, Jeor clasped his hands on the desk. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

For a moment, Jorah couldn’t even remember what he’d originally come in there to say. When it came to him, he hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a heavy beat. His father stared at him expectantly. Jorah swallowed and sat up straight. “I just wanted to tell you—Naharis has been great. I think we make a good team. So...thank you. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to prove myself.”

Jeor looked slightly perplexed. “Of course. Is that all?”

After a moment, Jorah nodded decisively. “Yes, sir. That’s all.”

With Jeor’s dismissal, he left the captain’s office and got back to work, feeling strangely at ease.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the Flunitrazepam/Rohypnol idea from an episode of "Criminal: UK." Specifically the one right before Kit's episode ;)


End file.
